Her own room was filled with a cold grey light as she entered it--a peculiar light drawn from the wind-swept sky and the pale, agitated waters; and she noticed, as she crossed the threshold, that the wind roared draughtily down the wide chimney, in a way that suggested autumn and autumnal gales. But the circumstance made little impression; she carried her own world in her heart--and here, in the letter Gore had written. In a second impulse of love, she laid the others aside, and opened Gore's envelope. Drawing out the letter, she held it for a moment against her face. On this paper his hand had rested when he wrote to her! There was a sense of personal contact in the mere thought. Then, at last, with a smile at her own sentiment, she opened it slowly and smoothed out the pages. The written lines--scarcely more than a dozen in number--danced for an instant before her eyes; then focused themselves with terrible distinctness. There was no formal beginning to the letter; it was merely a statement made in sharp, uneven characters, as though the sender had written under great stress--great emotion or resolve. "I find," it began, "that you have treated me with an unpardonable want of honour and want of truth on a matter that concerned me very deeply--the matter of Deerehurst; and it seems to me, under the circumstances, only just and right that our engagement should come to an end. A marriage built upon such a basis could only have one termination. If this seems hard or abrupt, I can only say that the knowledge of my mistake has come hardly to me. I shall go abroad again as soon as I can make my plans. I am glad to think that, as no one but your sister knew of our engagement, my action can cause no public comment or unpleasantness for you. "WALTER GORE." Clodagh read the lines--read and re-read them. For the first time in her life, her quick brain failed to respond to a first suggestion; then, at last, as though the cloud that obscured her mind had been rent asunder, conception of all that the letter conveyed sprang to her understanding. Walter had written this letter! Walter had given her up! Her face became very white; she swayed a little, looking about her vaguely, as if for some physical aid; then suddenly revolt took the place of panic. It was all some horrible mistake. She must go to him--rend the web of doubt that had divided them--if need be, humble herself, show him the greatness of her love, until he must condone--must forgive--must reinstate her in his heart! Moving swiftly, she crossed the room to the fireplace, drawing out her watch as she went. With a good horse, she might still catch the last train from Muskeere--take the night mail from Cork to Dublin--cross to Holyhead in the morning, and be back in London to-morrow! She lifted her hand to the frayed and tasselled bell-rope that hung from the ceiling: then, by a strange impulse, her arm dropped to her side.